Forgotten Children
by kryscrossed
Summary: New York was a city of forgotten children. Invisible to the wealthy unless they needed their shoes shined, or the morning news. This is the story of a wealthy girl and a forgotten child, whose paths crossed in a way that would alter their lives forever.


I passed him everyday. He always stood on the same street corner, bellowing out headlines as loud as he could. For the first few months I saw him there, I didn't even give him a second glance. Then one day, I walked by and I couldn't help but notice how pathetic he looked. His eye was bruised, offering a colorful yellowish purple stain across the right side of his face. He was only using one arm to hold up the newspaper that was almost as big as he was. His other arm hung limply at his side. All of that added to his usual greasy, scrawny, appearance was enough to grasp my attention, if only for a moment. I dug out a penny and offered it to him, careful not to allow my clean, white gloved hand to touch his grimy one. I let the penny drop into his expectant palm. Taking the paper he offered me, I walked away without looking back. That was my good deed for the week.

The next day I found myself looking for him as I approached his corner. He was there as usual, and I pulled out a penny as I reached him, offering a smile as I asked for a paper.

His didn't smile back. In fact, he actually looked a little bitter as he handed me my purchase.

I glanced down and noticed he didn't even have any shoes on. The temperatures were dropping and I had to hold back a shudder at the thought of facing a Manhattan winter without shoes.

As I walked away, I couldn't help but think about what had happened to such a little boy to make him so bitter… So lost. I also couldn't help but wonder about his wounds, and where he'd collected them. Were they simply the products of an argument settled by a fist fight, or was there something more sinister behind them?

I continued to think about him all day, often receiving reprimands from my friends for not paying attention to their gossip.

I finally excused myself early, and headed back home, not interested in their pointless games.

As I passed his corner- and that's what I'd come to think of it as, his corner- I was surprised to see him still there, holding up a paper with his good arm, trying to catch the attention of passerbys. I found another penny in my small coin purse, and made my way over to him, holding it out.

"Dis is still the morning edition, lady." He said, looking at me like I was an idiot. I think I actually felt my face flushing in embarrassment, from his words.

"I know, I lost my other one." I lied.

The boy shrugged, accepting my penny and giving me another paper.

Things went on like this for a while, I bought a paper from him every morning, and if I went home early enough, I'd buy another from him. I'd even caught a hint of a smile whenever he saw me coming.

It had been maybe a month or so, and I was walking towards his corner, penny already in hand. I stopped when I got there, not seeing him in his usual spot. I looked around for him for a minute before deciding he must be selling somewhere else.

But he wasn't there the next day either. Or the day after that. It was a week before I was finally worried enough to try to do something about it. I began visiting lodging houses, asking for the small boy with the disabled arm. I got many strange looks, but no information about where the boy was. I had no idea what his name was, or which lodging house he stayed at, if he even stayed at a lodging house. But I continued to search for him.

I walked into yet another lodging house, still not used to the open stares I received. I pushed my shoulders back, swallowing hard, and trying to ignore the stench that met my nose. I walked up to the desk, where a boy, about 15 years old, looked down at me.

"Ya need somet'in, miss?" He asked, a sneer on his face.

I ignored the suggestive tone in his voice, forcing a small smile to my lips, "I'm looking for a young boy. He usually sells on the corner of 101st and Broadway. His left arm was disabled."

The boy hopped down from his perch on the desk, his face more serious now. "Yeah, that's Mud."

"Mud?" I asked, my brow furrowing in confusion.

"Yeah, Mud." The boy repeated, impatient, "That's what e's called. He's not around anymore." The boy looked away for a moment, and I could see the muscles in his jaw tighten, "He's not around."

"Well, where is he?"

"He's at The Hannigan House."

"What's that?"

The boy snorted, looking down at me with disdain, "It's a place for kids who got no money. They're sent there when they get sick. Real sick."

My heart leaped in my chest, and my hand flew to my mouth, "He's sick?"

The boy leaned against the desk, folding his arms in front of his chest, "Coughin' up blood."

"Oh! Where's The Hannigan House at?"

"Down on 42nd. Ya can't miss it, big gray building."

I turned from the room, barely remembering to offer a thank you as I headed out the door. I made my way to 42nd street, deciding to walk instead of going back for my father's carriage. I arrived at 42nd, looking for the gray building. I gritted my teeth when I realized almost every building on the street was a shade of gray. I read each sign carefully until I finally found The Hannigan House. I entered, and once again almost retched at the smell.

"Excuse me?" I asked, walking up to an older lady, who was standing behind the front counter.

"Can I help you, dear?"

"I'm looking for a patient- he goes by Mud."

The woman looked down, running her finger down a list of names. "Oh, yes. Mud. I know the one- he's not doing well, dear. Tuberculosis. He's in room 14. You can see him, but you must wear a mask, dear."

I hesitated when she held out a small cloth mask to me, before taking it and tying it around my mouth. I found room 14, and found myself trying to hold my breath, not trusting the protection the thin mask had to offer.

Then I saw him, looking even skinnier then he had on the street. His small body was dwarfed by the cot he was lying in, a thin film of sweat covering his pale face. I knelt down beside his bed, tears stinging my eyes.

"Hey, Mud." I whispered, looking down at him.

His eyelids fluttered open, and he looked dazedly up at me. "What'er you doin' here?" He wheezed out.

"I came to see you. I haven't had a paper for a week." I forced out, my voice catching in my throat.

He almost laughed at that, but it was turned into a cough, as I watched helplessy.

"Ya shouldn't be here. It's not a place for a dame like you."

"It's not a place for a five year old, either."

He looked insulted, "Ise seven, lady."

I'm pretty sure my heart broke at that. It wasn't a place for a seven year old, either. I swallowed again, smoothing the edge of the blanket down. "My name's Katherine." I announced, a way to break the silence.

"Why are you here?"

Before I could answer, he slipped back into sleep, his breathing labored.

I sat with him until he woke up, 2 hours later. For the first time I saw fear in his eyes, "Ise gonna die, aint I?"

"No! No, of course not!" I said, praying that by some miracle those words would be true, I reached out, taking his hand in mine, "You're gonna be just fine. And I'll be here with you."

He drifted in and out of sleep, his breathing becoming more ragged and labored as the night wore on. I drifted off as well, falling into a dreamless sleep.

The feel of his hand slipping out of mine woke me, and I opened my eyes, blinking in an attempt to bring the world back into focus. The lady from the front desk was there, gently pulling the white sheet up over his head. My brain was still muddled from sleeping, and I stood quickly, "What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, but he's gone."

"But- how?! I just saw him selling papers a week ago!"

"Oh, dear, he'd been in and out of Hannigan House for a few months now. He insisted on selling every time his symptoms went away, so sure that he'd been cured. It was just too much for him."

I stumbled out of the room, and back into the streets, moving blindly back towards my home. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, and sobs were racking my body. I'd only known his name for a few hours, but Mud had touched my life in a way nobody ever had before.

The entire way home, as the dusk gathered, I noticed something I never had before. Everywhere I looked were children just like Mud. Scrawny and dirty, their hair unwashed, and their faces older then their actual years. They sold papers, and shined shoes, and worked in the factories. They were the hub of the wheel known as New York City. The forgotten children, without which the city would be lost.

It's been fifteen years now since I last saw Mud, but I still remember every detail as if it had happened yesterday.

I run Hannigan House now, alongside my husband, Michael. Every time I pass by room 14 I think of Mud. I wonder what would have become of him if he'd lived. I may never know how life would have turned out for him, but I do my best to make sure the other children who come through our doors have a chance at a future.

There's a plaque that now hangs on the door here. It read this:

Hannigan House

Refuge for the forgotten.

Rest for the weary.

Hope for all.


End file.
